Watch her fly, Jacob. And be ready with your arms wide to catch her.
I once talked myself into a corner and I decided I liked it there and so I never left it again. He has stayed patiently close to anchor my crooked halo over my horns while I stirred him with my delightful stories and my adoration.
I don't know why he does that.
I don't know if he'll return. His princess added an unexpected tale of repugnance to her repertoire and when you suspect something but its never confirmed it's easy to forget that it might be true after all.
Wednesday 31 January 2007
Reverse psychology.
It's getting long again.
Yeah, I suppose I should shave it.
Keep it, it'll look great when you meet David Suzuki.
Yeah or I could shave it off and look younger.
You and Ed Genochio*. You both look hot with beards and yet you both keep shaving them off.
You think Ed Genochio is hot?
Of course. Don't you?
Not so much, Bridge.
Well, you should, because he is.
What about David Suzuki?
That depends.
I see.
He's no Ed.
Stop with the Ed nonsense.
Are you jealous?
I've walked more than he's biked.
I don't doubt it.
I've been to more places, too.
Are you playing a one-sided game of my-cock-is-bigger-than-yours?
Possibly.
Why on earth do you need to do that?
Because you said he was cute.
Well, he is. He's got a great accent, too.
I don't need to know this, Bridge!
(*For the record, I've had a crush on Ed Genochio for a few years now.)
Yeah, I suppose I should shave it.
Keep it, it'll look great when you meet David Suzuki.
Yeah or I could shave it off and look younger.
You and Ed Genochio*. You both look hot with beards and yet you both keep shaving them off.
You think Ed Genochio is hot?
Of course. Don't you?
Not so much, Bridge.
Well, you should, because he is.
What about David Suzuki?
That depends.
I see.
He's no Ed.
Stop with the Ed nonsense.
Are you jealous?
I've walked more than he's biked.
I don't doubt it.
I've been to more places, too.
Are you playing a one-sided game of my-cock-is-bigger-than-yours?
Possibly.
Why on earth do you need to do that?
Because you said he was cute.
Well, he is. He's got a great accent, too.
I don't need to know this, Bridge!
(*For the record, I've had a crush on Ed Genochio for a few years now.)
Tuesday 30 January 2007
Nocturne.
Today's barometer is that we're all sick again. Last night I took Nyquil to quiet the raging sinus pressure and pain and had a restless sleep. Henry suffered the worst, coughing most of the night, tossing, turning and at one point calling out for..Daddy.
The kids don't call Jacob Daddy, they call him Jake.
The hardest parts of life are not my own, they are the children's, too young to fully understand life as it is now, their dreams bring back their memories in full bloom, as if they could reach out and touch in their sleep what no longer exists in their waking hours. Henry is no exception. On nights when he couldn't sleep Cole would rub his back and sing Harry Chapin to him, Cats in the Cradle, sort of an inevitable confession because Cole knew he worked too damned much and he felt guilty constantly but he never changed. I hate that song. Hate it.
Last night Henry asked Jacob to sing him to sleep and rub his back like daddy used to do when he had time. And Jacob couldn't dare bring himself to sing that fucking song and yet he wasn't about to refuse Henry any request for comfort that he could ever ask of Jake. And so Jake settled blissfully on a song that Henry now calls Jacob's lullaby, even though Henry is well aware that it rests on one of Mommy's favorite CDs of all time, the final track of U2's Unforgettable Fire, and he's heard it a million times before, but never a cappella, in Jacob's baritone, at three o'clock in the morning in the dark, which lent it a haunting simplicity that left me with no words at all.
Sleep
Sleep tonight
And may your dreams
Be realized
If the thundercloud
Passes rain
So let it rain
Let it rain
Rain on him
The kids don't call Jacob Daddy, they call him Jake.
The hardest parts of life are not my own, they are the children's, too young to fully understand life as it is now, their dreams bring back their memories in full bloom, as if they could reach out and touch in their sleep what no longer exists in their waking hours. Henry is no exception. On nights when he couldn't sleep Cole would rub his back and sing Harry Chapin to him, Cats in the Cradle, sort of an inevitable confession because Cole knew he worked too damned much and he felt guilty constantly but he never changed. I hate that song. Hate it.
Last night Henry asked Jacob to sing him to sleep and rub his back like daddy used to do when he had time. And Jacob couldn't dare bring himself to sing that fucking song and yet he wasn't about to refuse Henry any request for comfort that he could ever ask of Jake. And so Jake settled blissfully on a song that Henry now calls Jacob's lullaby, even though Henry is well aware that it rests on one of Mommy's favorite CDs of all time, the final track of U2's Unforgettable Fire, and he's heard it a million times before, but never a cappella, in Jacob's baritone, at three o'clock in the morning in the dark, which lent it a haunting simplicity that left me with no words at all.
Sleep
Sleep tonight
And may your dreams
Be realized
If the thundercloud
Passes rain
So let it rain
Let it rain
Rain on him
Monday 29 January 2007
A polaroid from 1976.
Sing with me,
Sing for the year,
Sing for the laughter and sing for the tears.
Sing it with me
Just for today,
Maybe tomorrow the good Lord will take you away.
Oh, don't roll your eyes. I heard it live in 1994 at an Aerosmith concert and it still sounds just as epic to me as it did when I first heard it when I was five years old and my dad took a momentary breather from his beloved collection of Eagles, Elton John, Gordon Lightfoot, Beach Boys and Creedence Clearwater Revival 8-track tapes and put on the radio.
I was hooked.
If only I can infuse my children with this eclectic, psychotic love of music I'll have done a good job. You do realize someday these little kids of mine are going to grow up and make their own marks on this planet, don't you?
I know.
I don't think anyone is ready for that. Hopefully they won't be the least bit shy about stepping out of the shadows of their infamous mother, all flesh, ocean-obsessed and headphones permanently fused to her skull.
Hard to believe they are such well-adjusted people. When I am not the least-bit well-adjusted, and am prone to pulling songs up over my head like favorite quilts and hiding in their comforts until people pull out the searchlights and come looking for me.
Why?
Narcissism. Plain and simple. The dark and seedy underbelly of some of my highest days. The inevitable exposure of all of me. Because I'm here, dammit and I'm going to leave my mark, even if it's only the smallest of bruises.
Sing for the year,
Sing for the laughter and sing for the tears.
Sing it with me
Just for today,
Maybe tomorrow the good Lord will take you away.
Oh, don't roll your eyes. I heard it live in 1994 at an Aerosmith concert and it still sounds just as epic to me as it did when I first heard it when I was five years old and my dad took a momentary breather from his beloved collection of Eagles, Elton John, Gordon Lightfoot, Beach Boys and Creedence Clearwater Revival 8-track tapes and put on the radio.
I was hooked.
If only I can infuse my children with this eclectic, psychotic love of music I'll have done a good job. You do realize someday these little kids of mine are going to grow up and make their own marks on this planet, don't you?
I know.
I don't think anyone is ready for that. Hopefully they won't be the least bit shy about stepping out of the shadows of their infamous mother, all flesh, ocean-obsessed and headphones permanently fused to her skull.
Hard to believe they are such well-adjusted people. When I am not the least-bit well-adjusted, and am prone to pulling songs up over my head like favorite quilts and hiding in their comforts until people pull out the searchlights and come looking for me.
Why?
Narcissism. Plain and simple. The dark and seedy underbelly of some of my highest days. The inevitable exposure of all of me. Because I'm here, dammit and I'm going to leave my mark, even if it's only the smallest of bruises.
Nien and thirty, sleep, pretty girl.
Jacob woke me up this morning by whispering that there are thirty days remaining until March first, and that I have survived the dark ages, and graduated to over nine hours of daylight at last.
Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles awake you when you rise
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
I find winters here very difficult, and that's a general observation not borne out of any other reason besides a horrific disdain for more dark than light of a day. Something I can't explain but I talk of often. The summers are glorious here, with the sun baking our little corner of the planet from the middle of the night to late in the next night, it's beams piercing the bubbled glass at 5 in the morning and providing a relentless glow until long after 10 pm. We get little time to hang upside down in the dark..like bats. I'm not a bat. I would do well in Denali, says Jake.
One of my disdains is for these room-darkening, insulated curtains. The kind we quickly discovered we needed, and we spent hundreds of dollars on them and then a few hundred more on better curtain rods and hardware with which to anchor these twenty-pound panels.
But they work, and around this time of year they choke off my enthusiasm and I begin to resent the hell out of the shroudlike weight of these protective fabrics that prevented the light.
And the cold, let's not forget the cold on a morning that saw the hinges on the screen door just about refuse to budge and I couldn't get back in for a few moments. The cold that makes me appear to puff down the road like Henry's favorite TV train character. Even though no one can see me, they're all safely nestled behind their own insulated drapes.
This week also heralds in a full moon on Thursday and so the children will be wild and we will be slightly moody and wondering why and it will all culminate into a surreal existence in which we have epiphanies that spark a new understanding, of how we can exist as skeptics and then fall back on something as simple as the hours of daylight or the phases of the moon or the dates of an ancient calendar that we cross off to find our place and gauge our moods. How I scrape the snow away from the sundial in the yard and peer at it as if I'll be able to wish it into service.
Jacob is trying to help me keep my faith through what might prove to be a difficult week but I'm going to focus on small, insignificant things and glide through it like I'm on a rail so that I don't linger too long and take those dreaded two steps back once again.
So far so good.
Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles awake you when you rise
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
I find winters here very difficult, and that's a general observation not borne out of any other reason besides a horrific disdain for more dark than light of a day. Something I can't explain but I talk of often. The summers are glorious here, with the sun baking our little corner of the planet from the middle of the night to late in the next night, it's beams piercing the bubbled glass at 5 in the morning and providing a relentless glow until long after 10 pm. We get little time to hang upside down in the dark..like bats. I'm not a bat. I would do well in Denali, says Jake.
One of my disdains is for these room-darkening, insulated curtains. The kind we quickly discovered we needed, and we spent hundreds of dollars on them and then a few hundred more on better curtain rods and hardware with which to anchor these twenty-pound panels.
But they work, and around this time of year they choke off my enthusiasm and I begin to resent the hell out of the shroudlike weight of these protective fabrics that prevented the light.
And the cold, let's not forget the cold on a morning that saw the hinges on the screen door just about refuse to budge and I couldn't get back in for a few moments. The cold that makes me appear to puff down the road like Henry's favorite TV train character. Even though no one can see me, they're all safely nestled behind their own insulated drapes.
This week also heralds in a full moon on Thursday and so the children will be wild and we will be slightly moody and wondering why and it will all culminate into a surreal existence in which we have epiphanies that spark a new understanding, of how we can exist as skeptics and then fall back on something as simple as the hours of daylight or the phases of the moon or the dates of an ancient calendar that we cross off to find our place and gauge our moods. How I scrape the snow away from the sundial in the yard and peer at it as if I'll be able to wish it into service.
Jacob is trying to help me keep my faith through what might prove to be a difficult week but I'm going to focus on small, insignificant things and glide through it like I'm on a rail so that I don't linger too long and take those dreaded two steps back once again.
So far so good.
Sunday 28 January 2007
Low light.
We're home. Jacob wanted to come back early and do some work, and so you get a post.
He isn't doing a lot of preaching anymore. He's still the congregational minister but there has been a long line of guest ministers and his partner doing the bulk of services and he has appropriately shifted his presence to the background, in preparations for the transitions to come.
I miss it. I miss his sermons. I never thought I would say that but it's true.
We did had fun with his sister. I love her to pieces. She's happy I'm part of the family. And I'm happy we're sisters now, having been friends for about 15 years. She was the one who wanted to party and begged her brother to drive her everywhere and if it hadn't been for what used to be a maddening subject between them, I never would have met Jake.
She painted our nails-hers, mine and Ruth's. She tried to get Jacob and Henry too but they resisted. She took me out for long drawn out virgin martinis (apple juice and olives-they were awful) and put low lights from a box in my hair in her tiny cluttered bathroom. We laughed until we cried and she hugged me hard and often and told me she was happy that I made her brother so happy. More than once I would point out that we've got our problems but every time she would stop me and reiterate how happy he is.
They are a lot a like, those two.
And now I've got a Sunday afternoon alone with the kids to catch up on laundry and story times and Jake will be home by 9 pm or so for a late romantic supper and maybe some snuggles. No skating tonight, since it'll be too late when he's finished at church.
Hope you had a nice weekend too.
He isn't doing a lot of preaching anymore. He's still the congregational minister but there has been a long line of guest ministers and his partner doing the bulk of services and he has appropriately shifted his presence to the background, in preparations for the transitions to come.
I miss it. I miss his sermons. I never thought I would say that but it's true.
We did had fun with his sister. I love her to pieces. She's happy I'm part of the family. And I'm happy we're sisters now, having been friends for about 15 years. She was the one who wanted to party and begged her brother to drive her everywhere and if it hadn't been for what used to be a maddening subject between them, I never would have met Jake.
She painted our nails-hers, mine and Ruth's. She tried to get Jacob and Henry too but they resisted. She took me out for long drawn out virgin martinis (apple juice and olives-they were awful) and put low lights from a box in my hair in her tiny cluttered bathroom. We laughed until we cried and she hugged me hard and often and told me she was happy that I made her brother so happy. More than once I would point out that we've got our problems but every time she would stop me and reiterate how happy he is.
They are a lot a like, those two.
And now I've got a Sunday afternoon alone with the kids to catch up on laundry and story times and Jake will be home by 9 pm or so for a late romantic supper and maybe some snuggles. No skating tonight, since it'll be too late when he's finished at church.
Hope you had a nice weekend too.
Saturday 27 January 2007
Light bright.
Oh yes, the hair cut.
I would have forgotten that I did it other than the fact that my head is five pounds lighter and my back gets a little cold but that's all imaginary, issues that are inside my head. I have heard more stories about people cutting their hair to signify change in the past year than I care to admit and maybe they finally got to me and so I had a moment of clarity and I did it.
My hair had reached past my waist. It was getting to the point where I had to either lighten the load or I was going to shave it off completely and join the Hare Krishnas at the airport. I look very good in orange, you know.
So I lightened my load, by fourteen inches. It's now..er...nipple-length or thereabouts. And I look like I'm fourteen years old.
And now it's in my mouth when I brush my teeth again and there's so much less for the battle braids, but it also means I don't have to check the kids' necks and fingers after they are asleep to make sure they aren't going to be suffocated, it takes me half the time to wash and to comb it out afterwards and...
..he loves it. When I came out he smiled so broadly I thought his mouth was going to spill right off his face in order to infringe on the scenery behind his head. He made a crack about sleeping with the new pretty girl and how we couldn't tell his wife, which is probably the oldest haircut joke in the world. And a miserable backhanded compliment but I let it slide.
And no one missed my hair until Henry went to grab it to do our elephant walk to bed, until I went to make sure I didn't sit on it when we sat down to dinner, until Jacob went to wind his fists three times into it when he kissed me, because he does that. But even though it's gone and it was one of the biggest hidden psychological crutches I ever had, I am reminded that it is simple vanity, and it's still really fucking long, considering how much was cut off.
My ponytail is on it's way to Locks of love, and I'm on my way to enjoy an extended brunch with Jacob's little sister Erin, who invited us to come out at the last minute for a weekend visit and we jumped at it so I am posting from her speedy little laptop today. The kids love Auntie Erin, possibly because sometimes, like Jacob, they can't understand a word she says. But she believes in cake for breakfast, and that's all that matters. So no post tomorrow, we'll be soaking up the Erin-love and making our way home again.
See you on Monday!
I would have forgotten that I did it other than the fact that my head is five pounds lighter and my back gets a little cold but that's all imaginary, issues that are inside my head. I have heard more stories about people cutting their hair to signify change in the past year than I care to admit and maybe they finally got to me and so I had a moment of clarity and I did it.
My hair had reached past my waist. It was getting to the point where I had to either lighten the load or I was going to shave it off completely and join the Hare Krishnas at the airport. I look very good in orange, you know.
So I lightened my load, by fourteen inches. It's now..er...nipple-length or thereabouts. And I look like I'm fourteen years old.
And now it's in my mouth when I brush my teeth again and there's so much less for the battle braids, but it also means I don't have to check the kids' necks and fingers after they are asleep to make sure they aren't going to be suffocated, it takes me half the time to wash and to comb it out afterwards and...
..he loves it. When I came out he smiled so broadly I thought his mouth was going to spill right off his face in order to infringe on the scenery behind his head. He made a crack about sleeping with the new pretty girl and how we couldn't tell his wife, which is probably the oldest haircut joke in the world. And a miserable backhanded compliment but I let it slide.
And no one missed my hair until Henry went to grab it to do our elephant walk to bed, until I went to make sure I didn't sit on it when we sat down to dinner, until Jacob went to wind his fists three times into it when he kissed me, because he does that. But even though it's gone and it was one of the biggest hidden psychological crutches I ever had, I am reminded that it is simple vanity, and it's still really fucking long, considering how much was cut off.
My ponytail is on it's way to Locks of love, and I'm on my way to enjoy an extended brunch with Jacob's little sister Erin, who invited us to come out at the last minute for a weekend visit and we jumped at it so I am posting from her speedy little laptop today. The kids love Auntie Erin, possibly because sometimes, like Jacob, they can't understand a word she says. But she believes in cake for breakfast, and that's all that matters. So no post tomorrow, we'll be soaking up the Erin-love and making our way home again.
See you on Monday!
Friday 26 January 2007
Morelasses and follies.
I'm just going to post with my heavy eyelids somewhere around my knees so I'm not going to make any sense at all.
Why he pronounces Molasses with an 'r' I will never understand. But it's funny. When he's in a rush or exasperated the accent just flies out all over the place and my heart melts right down through my body and pours out of my belly button in response, where I collect it in a teacup and put it up on a high shelf for safekeeping. That happens an awful lot.
And he sounds like this (ignore the ad, just listen to the salesman for an idea of how 'tick this accent is). When Jake gets going the rest of us are left uproariously in the dark.
I've run out of coffee. I have possibly forty drafts of semi-coherent posts sitting here that I never seem to finish. Caleb is stalking me, or so I have been told, and by an objective third party no less, but I don't know what this means. Jacob is working all day but planning to pop home for pancakes and his morelasses and kisses as he finds short breaks here and there, one of the joys of living close to work, close to his church.
I'm still tired and still trying to finish two more stories for my actual workday and then I'm going to beg off and watch movies for the remainder of the afternoon, one of the joys of working at home, though I'm supposed to say I'm so busy all the time and I do sometimes and then it gives me permission to do whatever the fuck I want to, and right now I want to sleep. As soon as the laundry and work and pancakes are done.
Bye.
Oh and yes, I got rid of the REM song from my head. When I woke up at three I had Relient K's Deathbed stuck there instead. Which is way more morbid and cute and funny and beautiful. It's 11 minutes long and a rollercoaster of a song but it's worth it for the voice of Jesus in the end, sung by the ever-plaintive Jon Foreman which is so freaking cool. His voice also makes my heart pour out of my bellybutton. He's a beautiful singer.
My friends are going to flip out and mourn the loss of the metal girl at this point, I'm sure. No worries, she's expanding her horizons!
And even more things I have to share, the owls, the icicles, Saw III, cutting my hair (because I did) and more but right now I'm feeling as slow as...morelasses.
Snort.
Why he pronounces Molasses with an 'r' I will never understand. But it's funny. When he's in a rush or exasperated the accent just flies out all over the place and my heart melts right down through my body and pours out of my belly button in response, where I collect it in a teacup and put it up on a high shelf for safekeeping. That happens an awful lot.
And he sounds like this (ignore the ad, just listen to the salesman for an idea of how 'tick this accent is). When Jake gets going the rest of us are left uproariously in the dark.
I've run out of coffee. I have possibly forty drafts of semi-coherent posts sitting here that I never seem to finish. Caleb is stalking me, or so I have been told, and by an objective third party no less, but I don't know what this means. Jacob is working all day but planning to pop home for pancakes and his morelasses and kisses as he finds short breaks here and there, one of the joys of living close to work, close to his church.
I'm still tired and still trying to finish two more stories for my actual workday and then I'm going to beg off and watch movies for the remainder of the afternoon, one of the joys of working at home, though I'm supposed to say I'm so busy all the time and I do sometimes and then it gives me permission to do whatever the fuck I want to, and right now I want to sleep. As soon as the laundry and work and pancakes are done.
Bye.
Oh and yes, I got rid of the REM song from my head. When I woke up at three I had Relient K's Deathbed stuck there instead. Which is way more morbid and cute and funny and beautiful. It's 11 minutes long and a rollercoaster of a song but it's worth it for the voice of Jesus in the end, sung by the ever-plaintive Jon Foreman which is so freaking cool. His voice also makes my heart pour out of my bellybutton. He's a beautiful singer.
My friends are going to flip out and mourn the loss of the metal girl at this point, I'm sure. No worries, she's expanding her horizons!
And even more things I have to share, the owls, the icicles, Saw III, cutting my hair (because I did) and more but right now I'm feeling as slow as...morelasses.
Snort.
No rest for the wicked.
Oh, good morning, Bridget!
I've been up for hours and upside down for most of them. Shhhhh.
If you don't mind, I'm just going to lay my head down on the desk and not type anything at all. I'm so tired I could fall asleep just about anywhere. But it's for a good cause. That would be the Jacob wanted me and woke me up at 3 am because he couldn't help himself and so we made love for four hours straight cause. I missed my run, he missed an early class and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Sometimes everything works the way it's supposed to and it works well and I have a smile on my face for the whole day. If only we could fix all our problems with epic Olympic-caliber sex. The world would be a better place. Or maybe Bridget would be a better place.
Oh wait, Jacob said I was a very good place indeed.
Har.
He said that tonight would involve cake and mulled wine and some completely despicable activities. I can't wait. I just hope I don't fall asleep in the middle because I actually did that once and I hurt his feelings but I made it up to him a million times over, no worries.
So.
Tired.
So.
Sated.
So not writing anything remotely worthwhile in this state, am I? Whew. It's going to be a long day.
I've been up for hours and upside down for most of them. Shhhhh.
If you don't mind, I'm just going to lay my head down on the desk and not type anything at all. I'm so tired I could fall asleep just about anywhere. But it's for a good cause. That would be the Jacob wanted me and woke me up at 3 am because he couldn't help himself and so we made love for four hours straight cause. I missed my run, he missed an early class and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Sometimes everything works the way it's supposed to and it works well and I have a smile on my face for the whole day. If only we could fix all our problems with epic Olympic-caliber sex. The world would be a better place. Or maybe Bridget would be a better place.
Oh wait, Jacob said I was a very good place indeed.
Har.
He said that tonight would involve cake and mulled wine and some completely despicable activities. I can't wait. I just hope I don't fall asleep in the middle because I actually did that once and I hurt his feelings but I made it up to him a million times over, no worries.
So.
Tired.
So.
Sated.
So not writing anything remotely worthwhile in this state, am I? Whew. It's going to be a long day.
Thursday 25 January 2007
Accidental discoveries.
A nose appeared from the edge of my peripheral vision and I looked up quickly to meet the pale blue eyes and dimpled smile of my husband. Sometimes he's all teeth and twinkles and it's really cute, you have to look hard if you're watching for signs that he's aging. There's a maturity in his expression that was hard-won, a world-weariness that tells you he has seen more with those eyes than most of us ever hope to, a light that never quits that tells you he has hope for everyone, including me, and a warm coldness that I can't describe because it alludes to his incredibly surprising asperity with our relationship.
Jacob is always in a rush.
He's not as laid back as he was when he was a friend.
When I write I usually grab the coffee, take out the hearing aids, put on my headphones and let my hair fall over my face in a curtain and those are my signs that I am tuning out life to enter my imaginary world with no distractions save for the wandering of my own brain as it tells my fingers what to do. A reverie I would trade my life for if only sometimes it were permanent, sanctioned daydreaming, escapism I have grown to covet.
My concentration shatters when he puts himself into my line of sight, a broken train of thought that disappears and I become easily frustrated and impatient. He is unable to stand back and watch now that we have arrived in this place, in this time in history. He used every moment he had and now there are none left.
But I'm being good. I haven't had a drink save for a sip of a mimosa on our trip. I take my pills, I went back to Claus after a major blowup in which I said I would jump off the roof if I had to return to the other. I was taken seriously, and he's mad and I'm disappointed, both of us in my need to resort to that level of painful dramatics to make a point. I told him that was precisely why I can't get anywhere with him, he doesn't pay attention to what I want until it's too late.
And sometimes I get mad and tell him just to go for an hour so I can work and he points out the new carafe of coffee he was offering me, nothing more and I feel like a bitch and he gets to play martyr and it only really works well when our roles are reversed and he can be the hardass and I am the trophy who can do no wrong.
And sometimes I really like the interruptions and the fuss he makes over me. I feel less alone and the glass dissolves before my eyes and his coldness and his rush fall away and he is my ready steady rock.
And sometimes thoughts just stop and never make any sense at all, it's just some thought that has to get out, whether there's resolution or not. Like turning off a song in the middle and when you go to listen again, you start the whole song over.
Jacob is always in a rush.
He's not as laid back as he was when he was a friend.
When I write I usually grab the coffee, take out the hearing aids, put on my headphones and let my hair fall over my face in a curtain and those are my signs that I am tuning out life to enter my imaginary world with no distractions save for the wandering of my own brain as it tells my fingers what to do. A reverie I would trade my life for if only sometimes it were permanent, sanctioned daydreaming, escapism I have grown to covet.
My concentration shatters when he puts himself into my line of sight, a broken train of thought that disappears and I become easily frustrated and impatient. He is unable to stand back and watch now that we have arrived in this place, in this time in history. He used every moment he had and now there are none left.
But I'm being good. I haven't had a drink save for a sip of a mimosa on our trip. I take my pills, I went back to Claus after a major blowup in which I said I would jump off the roof if I had to return to the other. I was taken seriously, and he's mad and I'm disappointed, both of us in my need to resort to that level of painful dramatics to make a point. I told him that was precisely why I can't get anywhere with him, he doesn't pay attention to what I want until it's too late.
And sometimes I get mad and tell him just to go for an hour so I can work and he points out the new carafe of coffee he was offering me, nothing more and I feel like a bitch and he gets to play martyr and it only really works well when our roles are reversed and he can be the hardass and I am the trophy who can do no wrong.
And sometimes I really like the interruptions and the fuss he makes over me. I feel less alone and the glass dissolves before my eyes and his coldness and his rush fall away and he is my ready steady rock.
And sometimes thoughts just stop and never make any sense at all, it's just some thought that has to get out, whether there's resolution or not. Like turning off a song in the middle and when you go to listen again, you start the whole song over.
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